


A Strong Second

by NobodyVIII



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII (Video Game 1997), Final Fantasy VII Remake (Video Game 2020)
Genre: Angst, in-between
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-10-23
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:21:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24176560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NobodyVIII/pseuds/NobodyVIII
Summary: After a tragic encounter at the Temple of the Ancients, Reno finds himself unceremoniously in command of the Turks.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 40





	1. A Rough Night

**Author's Note:**

> ~*My love of FFVII goes back to my adolescence and I have to say, I'm glad to see it getting a Remake. I played the whole thing in 24 hours and immediately wanted to start writing in that world again. Turks for life, kids. Just for fun.*~

Wall Market after dark: nothing but glaring neon, incessant music, raucous laughter, and gil changing hands. Crowds of pleasure seekers milled below in various stages of intoxication. Excessively vibrant stalls promised the best deals on black market items costumed in shades of legality. Anyone seeking distraction in this disreputable corner of Sector 6 knew what they were getting into. It was the kind of fun one had while keeping a close eye on their wallet. And their back.

The atmosphere had dimmed somewhat of late. The plate incident in Sector 7 had catastrophically effected more than just one district of Midgar…and Sector 6 had been no exception. Debris had become just as much a part of the scenery as the lights and brothels. But the rats who inhabited this proverbial ship knew that as long as there were patrons, profit wasn’t far behind. So, despite the chaos and the sudden absence of the wantonly infamous Don Corneo, Wall Market carried on.

It never ceased to amaze Reno what people did when they thought no one was paying attention. From his balcony vantage point, he was privy to all sorts of inane nonsense below. A barkeep snuck a swig from a particularly pricey bottle before pouring a fifth into an unwitting patron’s glass. Passersby blindly stepped over what was left of a dead cat without so much as a glance. A young couple in a side alley adjacent to his perch thought they were being discrete by taking their amorous exchange behind a well-lit stack of garbage cans.

 _Classy_ , he thought to himself, flicking ash lazily into the street below. A light breeze cooled the perspiration dappling his bare skin, teased his hair. Leaning forward on the railing, he took a long drag from a loosely rolled cigarette and sent it slowly back into the night. Idly, he watched as the smoke curled, thinned and disappeared. Stark shadows and blinding light alternated in automated patterns across his face as various signs blinked their reflections across his wan features. He’d only just returned to Midgar, but it was getting late. Or early. And the night was wearing off. He’d have to head back soon.

Shifting his weight, Reno stretched a knot out of his shoulder with a pained sigh. He’d nearly snapped his collarbone on his last assignment. Deep black and purple bruises mottled the point of impact, spreading out in lighter shades of green and blue along his neck. His bare back and chest sported an exotic variety of similar abrasions. They came with the territory. They meant he’d survived. And he was a quick healer. The headache blossoming behind his eyes, however, was the result of several generous nightcaps and too much of a good time.

He finished the last of his cigarette, smoke billowing from his nostrils as he tossed the butt into the street below. He ventured a parting glance at Wall Market’s vibrant night life from his view above. The side street couple had picked up the pace, making the most of a wall at the back of the alley. The cat, a calico, was still dead. And the barkeep was no longer in sight.

Time to go.

Pushing aside the curtain doubling as a door, Reno slipped inside, padding barefoot into the room. It was dark—dimly lit by a single candled lantern on an ornate side table. The smell of sweat and cheap incense permeated the air. By memory, he edged around the bed…hoping to avoid any further interaction with its occupant. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but not before he’d snagged his foot on the leg of an armchair.

“Agh—shhhhit,” he hissed in a whisper, stumbling backwards over his own discarded shoes. A form stirred in the bedsheets. Reno froze.

“Everything alright?” came a groggy voice from the mattress.

_Shit._

“Yeah, fine,” was the hasty reply.

“Leaving so soon?”

“I have work,” Reno replied bluntly. There was a pause between them. Reno managed to find his wayward shoes in the semi-dark and took a seat in the offending armchair to put them on.

“Shame,” decided the evening’s conquest. “I was hoping for an encore performance.”

“Yeah, well…” Eyes finally adjusting, Reno crossed to a dingy mirror propped against the wall and began gathering up his hair. “I gotta go.”

Petty grumbling gradually became muffled as the bed’s occupant rolled over and buried their words beneath the blankets. Reno ignored the semi-conscious protests behind him and took stock of his things. His shirt lay on the floor, his jacket tossed beside it. The finger gloves rested on the side table next to his phone. He felt his pockets: one Shinra ID card, a handful of gil. Where was…

Right.

Crossing over to the bed, Reno lifted the blankets and searched for the missing accessory. The symmetry of the sheets had been upset by the night’s events; bunched and askew. Wading through them without waking the sleeper was going to be impossible. Sure enough…

“What is it?”

Reno sighed. “The eyewear.”

“The…oh, yeah.”

Fumbling hands groped around in the mess of blankets, finally producing the requested goggles. Just as Reno reached for them, his one-night stand pulled them back.

“You’re sure you have to rush off?”

“You’re drunk.”

“So?”

“So, I’m not anymore. Give ‘em back.”

Again, the goggles appeared. Reno snatched them before they could escape again. He turned, gathered his shirt from the floor. Tugged it on. Slung his jacket over his shoulder.

“Do I at least get a name?” Reno collected his phone, pulled on his gloves. Then came the jacket. The eyewear returned to their signature spot atop his brow line. He was back in uniform. “Well?”

For the last time, he made his way to the bed. His tied-off hair slipped over his shoulder as he leaned in close. A moment passed between them, one a question, the other a tacit dismissal. Gloved fingers smoothed a tender line along the shadow-cast face. Without a smile, he kissed the lips he’d forget by the end of the week.

“No.”

The door made no sound as he closed it behind him.

Back in the street, the Turk slipped down a little-known back path and hopped a broken fence at the end of the line. With nothing but the darkness and the now distant murmur of Wall Market behind him, reality slowly crept back in. He was sore—the kind of sore that made him question the merits of being upright. His head throbbed dully; his mouth tasted burnt. His tongue felt thick and numb, but all he wanted was another cigarette. He hadn’t taken stock since rolling back into Midgar several hours prior.

Tired. That was the common denominator.

Dog tired, beat to hell, used and a user.

That was Reno.

With Tseng out chasing a lead on Sephiroth, Reno had known going into Wall Market that his window of opportunity to blow off some steam was limited. The plan had been to spend a few hours not working, not thinking. He hadn’t even filled in his partner-in-crime, Rude, of his whereabouts. He wanted distance, wanted to shed the routine. Wanted a drink. A stranger.

Now, all he wanted was sleep.

The farther he got from the bustling remains of Sector 6, the clearer his head became. He had a laundry list of things on his docket, one that grew with each new lead that came in. Sephiroth, the First-Class turned psychopath, was out there somewhere looking to start something. Clones had begun popping up in the most inconvenient droves. Avalanche was out there doing…whatever it was they were doing. Pretending to be holier than thou about blowing up reactors.

Something flipped in his stomach and he missed a step, skidding down an incline with a string of expletives. He grabbed hold of what was left of a shattered concrete barrier post before gravity drove him to the ground. Adrenaline surging, he winced, putting a hand to his stomach. Maybe it was his blood alcohol level, maybe it was the empty stomach he’d started with. Whatever the case, it took Reno several agonizing minutes to prevent the night’s festivities from coloring the pavement.

“…The hell,” he complained to no one, trying to keep his breathing steady. The liquor might have been cheap, but he’d paid gil for it. He was not about to lose it for no damn good reason. Scowling against the nausea, Reno gathered his resolve and started walking, perplexed by the rebellion in his gut. Known for his practiced tolerance to strong drink, he couldn’t fathom why his body had decided that tonight was the night to be contrary. Seeking distraction from the roiling inside him, he set his sights on his surroundings. It never hurt to be aware, especially in the dark.

The suit, for all intents and purposes, meant business. Turks could be spotted in a crowd by their attire…and Reno’s bright red hair and tattoos made him starkly more memorable. He liked it that way—he’d cultivated a reputation for a fuck-all attitude and ruthless energy that had the average rival scattering without a fight. Getting his hands dirty was practically his job description; he’d made Second in the Turks’ rank for good reason. Torture, investigation, surveillance, assassination, detonation: anything the Company needed, he handled without question…and often with a fair amount of flash. It was no surprise to him that those he passed gave him a wide berth.

Tapping into years of suspicion and training, Reno casually assessed each individual as they wandered along his path. Most of them were harmless civilians going about their business. Workers. Guards. A few infantrymen. The latter snapped to attention with a resounding “Sir!” as he passed—which the Turk brushed off with a half-assed “Yeah, yeah.”

Infantrymen. Good for one thing and one thing only: taking bullets.

As the Sectors began shifting from 6 to 7, the sense of devastation became palpable. Riddled remains of broken buildings loomed in the distance. Sparking wires and leaking pipes made venturing into the wreckage a biohazard. A candle-lit collection of small stones lined with flowers and trinkets caught his eye. Civies milled about the structure even in the dark. Kneeling. Whispering. Holding one another. He stopped short, frowned.

A memorial.

A fresh wave of nausea swept over him, overwhelming his senses just as suddenly as the first. What the hell…? It had to be the headache. They did a number on his stomach from time to time. Tasting bile, heart racing, a bolt of foreboding rose in him and he turned away, the back of his hand firmly planted to his mouth.

 _Nope,_ he told himself. _Not gonna happen._

He had to keep moving; that was all there was to it. Had to get back to Shinra to get checked out. Booze, headache, poison—there had to be a reason why his insides wanted outside. But whatever it was, it wasn’t good. He’d scrubbed brains off his hands on more than one occasion. Having an unruly stomach didn’t suit him.

It was all Reno could do to stumble back to Shinra HQ without doubling over. His heart pounded in his chest and ears as he made his way through various security checks on the ground floor. Boarding the nearest elevator—empty, thankfully—he fell back into the corner for support and ran a hand down his haggard face.

“The fuck is wrong with you?” he mumbled testily to himself. He slammed his fist into the wall beside him, pent up adrenaline surging. The shuddering, lilting pull of the lift did nothing to calm the relentlessly ill feeling he’d been fighting. His jaw clenched as he shut his eyes to the unpleasant sensation.

 _Come on—I don’t have time for this_.

He wasn’t going to make it, not if the elevator didn’t get a move on. B3…he had to get to B3 and he’d be good. He’d shake it off, down some water. Go to bed. Call it a night. If he still felt like shit in the morning, he’d get looked at. Having a game plan eased some of the tension from his shoulders. He’d be alright. There wasn’t anything really wrong with him. He just didn’t get sick very often and he didn’t want to make a habit of it. That was it.

The elevator finally glided to a stop and the doors slid open. It took Reno a second to peel himself out of the corner, but he managed. Crossing his arms to hold himself erect, eyes stubbornly forward, he slipped past the small gathering of employees hoping to catch a ride to the surface. He just had to get to the restroom; someplace quiet. With water. And no one.

A hand on his shoulder cut his exit short.

Rude.

Reno hadn’t seen his partner emerge from the group at the elevator. The guy had been right there…hadn’t he? Thinking back, Reno remembered a pair of shades out of the corner of his eye but hadn’t shown the presence of mind to put two and two together. Tasting bile once more, he cleared his throat.

“Later,” he stammered hastily, brushing the hand aside and heading off down the corridor. He could hear Rude following but didn’t have time to berate him.

“You look like you’re about to—.”

“I am. Beat it.”

The footsteps behind Reno stopped abruptly. The women’s restroom was just ahead. It would have to do. Careening inside, he had a half-second to be grateful that the stall doors were open and he didn’t have an audience before slamming the first one open and losing the uphill battle with his stomach. It didn’t take long to empty the evening’s contents into the porcelain throne. As the upheaval began to subside, Reno slumped back against the stall wall, drained. He didn’t feel much better. The world still didn’t seem to be sitting right on its axis, but with a clearer head he began putting the ‘why’ together…and he wasn’t happy with what he found. He wasn’t poisoned. He wasn’t sick.

He’d gotten himself drunk and let himself think.

“Why the fuck did I go and do that?” Reno asked the toilet paper roll across from him, his voice thin and hoarse. He spit the sour from his mouth and let his head loll back against the metal stall. Shut his eyes. Took in a sincerely needed deep breath and let it out slow.

 _You’re just tired_ , he told himself. _That vacation wasn’t long enough._

The bathroom door opened with a hiss.

“Occupied,” Reno grunted from his seat on the floor. A shadow stood in the entry to the open stall. Reno didn’t need a second glance to know whose shoes he was looking at. With a sigh, he pushed himself shakily to his feet, spitting the taste from his mouth once more.

“Here.” Rude passed a mug full of water into Reno’s hands. Clearly, it had been the first cup Rude spotted and Reno was almost 100% sure it was Elena’s. He took it without argument, downing a few mouthfuls…pausing to see how it sat in his gut. He grimaced when his stomach lurched in protest, but he managed to keep a lid on his queasiness.

“So, you heard,” Rude said evenly. Something about his tone sent up a red flag in Reno’s trained mind. What was left of his stomach sank.

“Heard what?” Reno asked gruffly, attempting a second go at the water.

Rude said nothing. Behind his shades, Reno could tell the guy was looking decidedly away.

“Heard what?” Reno repeated. “What am I supposed to know?”

Rude’s jaw tensed.

“It’s Tseng.”

 _What now?_ Reno’s pulse pounded in his ears once more. “What about him?”

Rude’s hidden gaze fell.

“He’s dead.”


	2. A Tall Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bathroom breakdown: continued. Spoilers for FFVII if you haven't played the original game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna write this in shorter chapters as I get used to writing again. Who's your favorite FFVII character and why? If you leave a comment, be sure and tell me. I always like hearing what other people think.

“You’re kidding.”

Rude remained silent, hidden behind his shades. He shook his head.

“Says who?” Reno pressed.

“Just got word.”

“From who?”

“—From _whom_.” Reno jumped, losing his grip. Elena’s mug shattered on impact. The two peered out of Reno’s hideaway just in time to see the door three stalls down open. A puffy-eyed, red-nosed Elena trudged into the open. Visibly shaking, she turned her bleary gaze on the duo.

“Elena?” Reno exclaimed. “Where the hell did you come from? How long have you been in here?”

“Long enough,” she managed. Her voice was rougher than Reno’s. “Sounds like you had fun.”

Rude frowned. “You didn’t tell him?”

“I—"

“ENOUGH!” Reno shouted, scowling. Elena jumped. Rude turned abruptly. “Will somebody tell me what the fuck’s going on?!”

A heavy silence followed.

“Reeve’s informant,” Rude announced, “spotted Tseng in the Temple of the Ancients. He was investigating the area when Sephiroth ambushed him.”

“…Fuck.”

It’d been a gut reaction, completely unbidden. His face disappeared temporarily behind both hands as he dug his palms into his eyes, processing. The pallid, blindsided features afterwards revealed contrasted sharply with the red of his tattoos. Elena sniffled softly to herself. Rude continued.

“Sephiroth attacked Tseng near the entrance. They’re already moving to extract him.”

“Who’s _they_ ,” Reno reinforced, sick of the ambiguity.

“Reeve’s contact,” Elena replied. She was clearly trying to keep her trembling lips steady as a fresh wave of tears claimed her. “And a few of our plants in Junon.”

Legs unsteady, Reno shifted his weight slowly, trying to think. A slight tremor plagued his balance. Between the booze, the sick, and the news he’d just received, he felt like he’d been sucker punched. He had to keep his cool, had to stay focused. Had to keep the fogginess rimming his vision at bay. There had to be more to the story.

“How do we know he’s dead?”

“Sephiroth stabbed him,” Elena sobbed angrily. Reno had never seen her so worked up before. “Stabbed him and left him for Avalanche to find. The Centra girl was the only one who bothered to stop and try to help him. And Sephiroth killed her too.”

Reno’s blood turned to ice.

“—Aerith?” he stammered. “The girl’s dead too?”

Rude placed a hand on Elena’s shuddering shoulder.

_What the hell._

“…Can’t be,” was all Reno could come up with, dazed. Tseng, ‘The Director,’ was an uncompromising perfectionist. The guy lived and breathed his job and performed it with the ease one could expect only from a seasoned professional. He was like a spider at the center of a web of a thousand strands: any movement and he was there, on top of the matter before the situation even saw the light of day. Half of the time, Reno knew, things were taken care of before even they—the Turks—knew about it. Tseng was a master of his craft without equal. Reno had always admired Tseng’s level head in uncertainty, his practiced tact, his ability to read a room in an instant. Losing ‘The Director’ wasn’t just a job vacancy.

It was an irredeemable void.

Reno did his best to keep his mind from collapsing in on itself. Mouth dry, heart racing—he felt panic sinking in. He’d done terrible, unspeakable things…witnessed and committed violence at the wave of a hand. In all the years he’d been a Turk, he’d barely given his choices a thought. They were assignments handed down by others with more power—and more money—than him. They weren’t his responsibility. They were jobs. Nothing more. Tseng gave an order, the President issued an assignment…and he’d acted. It was as simple as that—

_The President._

“Who knows about all this?” Reno asked tentatively.

“Just us,” Rude answered. “And Reeve.”

Reno nodded, counting his blessings. If the President didn’t know, that was one less thing for him to worry about. _Not my job—_ he thought, stopping short. Elena and Rude stared back at Reno in relative silence, with the exception of Elena’s attempts to collect herself. They were waiting expectantly for— _What, exactly?_ he questioned. _A next step? A pat on the back? An order?_

Alarmed realization slowly dawned.

_…Oh._

“You’re Second Rank,” Rude said, somehow always tracking with Reno’s moods. “Or at least, you were.”

Sobering, Reno let the gravity of the situation sink in.

“You’re the new—” Elena started, but Reno cut her short.

“Don’t say it.”

 _I could always bolt_ , he told himself. _Find the nearest window and jump. Steal a helicopter and bail. Barricade myself in an office and never come out again._ But despite the racing in his pulse and thoughts, he knew how this story ended. He owed it to himself—after all, he’d worked damn hard to make Second. He owed it to the two goons staring google-eyed at him to give it a try, to give them something to focus on. And, deep down, he knew he owed it to Tseng. The guy had spent every waking moment keeping Shinra’s seedy underbelly in some semblance of order. He’d protected the Turks, sheltered them without coddling or tolerating excuses. He’d organized ventures that had resulted in tragedy, knowing full well that the outcome would fall on him. He’d made difficult call after difficult call, taking the hit for the rest of the team. He’d retired the only way Turks knew how.

In a body bag.

The least Reno could do was simple enough.

He could ** _try._**

Over the years, Reno had been entrusted with the highest levels of responsibility due to his performance. He’d been the former President’s personal body guard, had been tasked with silencing…and saving…ex-SOLDIERS, had personally been given the order to drop the plate of Sector 7. He was good—and he knew it. But there was a certain brand of responsibility that he hadn’t seen the need to cultivate: leadership. He had the authority to boss the other Turks around, sure. But being the head of something?

_Guess I gotta start somewhere. Damn you, Tseng._

Reno took in a deep breath, let it out. Focused up. Straightened his posture…as much as Reno could.

“Alright, here’s the deal,” he began. “No one hears about this outside of us. Let rumors do what they do best: muddy the waters. I’ll fill the President in on Tseng, but until we get confirmation on the Centra girl and what went down in that Temple, I don’t want him catching wind of this. Understood?”

“Understood,” Elena and Rude chanted in unison. “But,” Elena added, “why not?”

“Because a lot was riding on her being alive,” Reno replied. “And I gotta come up with a way to break it to the Boss.”

Elena nodded. Her attention drifted to the shattered pieces on the floor of Reno’s stall. “Is that…my mug?” she asked, swiping at the moisture lining her face. Reno followed her line-of-sight before leveling her with a sarcastic scowl.

“That’s what you’re worried about right now?” Elena flushed in frustration.

“No! Obviously! I just…it was a gift. From my dad. It was my favorite.”

“It’s my fault,” Rude chimed in. “I didn’t know it was yours.”

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Reno sighed. “Look, I dropped it. I’ll get you another one. Cool?”

Elena shook her head. “You don’t have to do that; it’s okay.”

“I know I don’t have to,” Reno pressed, rushed. His headache was coming back. “Just let me do it. Alright?”

Sensing Reno’s delicate hold on his self-control, Elena let any further protests go.

“Alright,” she conceded, tired. Heavy lids hid her bloodshot eyes behind damp lashes. “You owe me.”

“Fine,” Reno replied.

Rude cleared his throat, tugged absently at the end of his sleeves.

“What?” Reno prompted.

“What are we going to do about Sephiroth?” Rude asked. The steel in his tone meant business.

 _Gut the bastard_ , came to mind.

“One thing at a time, partner,” Reno replied. “Revenge is on the table, but too soon and we’ll all end up taking a trip to the Lifestream. If he surprised The Director, he could get the jump on any of us. We gotta make sure he pays…and we can’t do that if we’re dead.”

A dull ache settled in Reno’s chest at the thought of Tseng’s final moments. Execution style. Bleeding out in the dark. It was fucking Veld all over again. And Tseng didn’t deserve to go out like that. He pushed the pang aside. There was no time to mourn.

“Elena,” Reno assigned, “see if you can find where Avalanche is hiding out. I want to know what went down.”

“Got it,” she nodded, tears nearly dried. Radiating with fierce resolve, she buried the last of her grief in a way befitting her uniform. “I’ll get answers, don’t you worry about that.”

“I won’t,” Reno replied honestly. The edge in Elena’s tone left little room for doubt. Without further ceremony, Elena left the two gentlemen alone in the women’s restroom, the door hissing behind her.

Rude, who had watched the sudden departure, turned back to Reno. “What should I do?” he asked.

Reno bit down hard, his jaw clenching. “I want you to get Reeve’s footage,” Reno explained. “I want to see it for myself.”

Rude frowned. “Are you sure?”

“It’s evidence,” Reno explained. “And we need to go over it top to bottom.”

The crease lining Rude’s sunglasses deepened.

“Right,” he murmured. Clearly, the prospect of watching their Director bleed to death didn’t sit well with either of them, but Rude seemed particularly uneasy.

“Leave the footage to me,” Reno said knowingly. “After you get your hands on it, see if we have any leads on Sephiroth. I have a feeling he’s not worried about being spotted.”

Rude took to the second order with notable enthusiasm. He straightened, nodded with an affirmative grunt. “What about you?” Rude asked.

“I’m, uh…” Reno thought out loud. Over Rude’s shoulder, Reno caught a glimpse of his own colorless features in the mirror lining the wall. “I’m gonna see about gaining access to Tseng’s files. See what I can piece together about what the hell’s going on.” He swallowed. Dry. “Then I’ll check what’s in that surveillance footage.”

Rude stiffened.

“Gotta do it, Rude,” Reno explained dully. “For the facts, sure. But it’s…respect. You know? Gotta respect what happened.”

Gravely, Rude nodded. “Sure.”

The line-up of the night’s events began catching up to Reno…his one-night-stand, the drinking, the episode, getting sick, losing the Director, losing the Centra girl, and gaining one tall order of responsibility. The weight of it all settled over the former Second.

“Come on.” Reno gestured to Rude, stepping over what remained of Elena’s mug. “Let’s get started.”


	3. < Fifteen Years Earlier, Pt. 1 >

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Setting the stage, as it were. Some language, so if that's not your thing, plug your ears. Also torture. And a little murder.

“What do you think?” Two Guns asked, fixated on the suspect from the dark side of a two-way glass window.

“About?” Tseng replied casually.

Both young recruits, wet behind the ears, had recently earned their initial marks in the Turks training program. Their nicknames had become booked codenames in lieu of ID numbers. Each had gained a specialization based on their skills and more anticipated still—the prospect of assignments.

Two Guns, nineteen, clicked his tongue.

“He’s gonna crack, that’s my bet. Crack like a Condor egg.”

Tseng, just turned fifteen, chuckled.

“What?” Two Guns retorted.

“Look closer,” replied the younger man simply.

Two Guns grumbled to himself. Working for Don Corneo had earned him a certain level of respect. Graduating alongside a kid five years his junior rubbed him wrong. Still, Tseng had navigated training like a fish in water. It was never a good idea to ignore what he had to say. Two Guns looked as directed, casting a wider mental net.

The kid in question had taken a seat in the middle of the back wall, facing the door to the interrogation room. Arms propped on his knees, he absently picked at a scab on his elbow. His choice of neon hair had clearly been a recent one—lines of the cheap color still stained his neck. The tussled red mess atop his head was the work of a mirror and a pair of scissors…no skill, all necessity. Freckles dotted the dark circles lining his scuffed baby-face: telltale signs of a slum rat. His clothes were probably the only ones he owned; they certainly looked more like an extension of his situation than a statement. He was definitely a kid, younger than Tseng if Two Guns had to guess. Blood oozed from a busted lower lip and he swiped at the flow before it had a chance to dribble from his chin. And those tattoos…a bad choice. The Turk couldn’t tell if they’d been an attempt at scars or some sort of animal markings. The red streaks, one beneath each eye, took up half of the punk’s face. All in all, the suspect was a pretty comical sight.

“What am I looking for?” Two Guns asked, narrowed eyes practically boring holes in the glass.

Tseng, with the patience of a mentor, waited.

After a notable silence, Two Guns shrugged. “I don’t know. Looks like any kid I grew up with in the slums. I used to throw his kind out of Corneo’s for trying to catch a peek. I know the type—all bark, and the only bite he’s got’s when the punk he’s up against is smaller than him. Street rats take what they don’t have when no one’s looking, pick pockets, run small-time scams and games on the street. They’ll beat up an old lady if there’s enough of them, but a kid his age never acts alone.”

“You’re correct on that count,” Tseng replied. For what Two Guns presumed was a personal reason, Tseng had cut off the long hair he had arrived with the day he’d begun training. With a few years under his belt, he’d gradually let it grow. Sweeping a chin-length lock neatly back behind his ear, he continued his analysis. “And you do have the advantage of personal experience in this instance.”

“You’re not from Midgar at all, right?” Two Guns quipped absently, still trying to ascertain what Tseng was apparently seeing. Tseng let the comment pass in silence.

“Take a look at him objectively,” he continued, resting his chin thoughtfully in his fingers. “He’s young, one of a group. He’s seen difficulty—he has the build of someone who is used to going without. Clearly comfortable with injury.”

“The lip?” Two Guns interjected. “Don’t let that fool you.”

“The foot,” Tseng explained, pointing. Two Guns followed Tseng’s line of sight. Sure enough, the kid’s booted left foot was tilted at an unnatural angle. Dried blood matted the little of the sock that could be seen atop the shoe. The older Turk had assumed it was dirt. Sweat beaded on the kid’s forehead and Two Guns caught a slight tremor in his fingers as he idly tapped his knee. His face, though pale, remained easy.

“Huh,” Two Guns conceded.

“He’s chosen the center of the far wall—an actively defensive position. He can be ready to act or to run from a vantage point of his choosing. Regardless of his choice, whoever steps through that door will be met with a challenge.”

“He’s not going to get far with that foot,” Two Guns replied.

“That isn’t what he wants observers to think. He sat at his own leisure, took his time. He’s been checking for cameras since he entered the room and hasn’t looked at this window once. What does that tell you?”

“That he’s playing tough,” Two Guns suggested. “He thinks he can bluff his way out.”

“In a sense,” Tseng allowed. His calculated gaze narrowed. Two Guns caught the corner of his coworker’s mouth quirk in amusement. “He’s planning.”

Sure enough, Two Guns watched the suspect cut sideways glances systematically at each corner of the room, above the door, above the two-way glass. “He knows he’s being watched, so he’s putting on a show.”

“He’s letting us know that he understands how this process works,” Tseng said. “He’s been in this position before, probably with local authorities or with other criminals.”

“More likely than not,” Two Guns nodded. “Doesn’t mean he won’t crack.”

The door to the interrogation room opened.

“Let’s find out,” Tseng mused, taking a seat to observe at his leisure. Two Guns remained standing.

A bespectacled Gongagan with a note-worthy scar entered, shutting the door behind him. He wore the distinctive uniform of a Turk operative. The suspect glared daggers at the newcomer from his spot on the floor.

“Katana?” Two Guns frowned. “Why the hell did they assign him to this? He’s a softy.”

“He’s your senior for one,” Tseng replied coolly, “and it’s his mess for another.”

“How so? He wasn’t even there.”

“It was his recruit.”

“That got killed last night?”

Tseng nodded. “An undercover mission gone wrong—recommended by Katana.”

“Shit,” Two Guns mused. “I heard it was a gang fight too close to the train platform.”

“That is the official statement,” Tseng explained. “The Director wanted to leave the possibility of a second attempt available to him.”

“So, Smoke--.”

“—is dead,” Tseng finished.

“Never thought he had it in him anyway,” Two Guns quipped. “There’s something about hiring out of Gongaga.”

Tseng held up a silencing hand. The interrogation had started.

Katana stood just inside the room, hands in his pockets, studying the suspect in marked silence. Then, he began.

“That was some fight last night,” he said. The suspect just glared at him, never breaking eye contact. “Makes me miss being a kid. Things hurt less.”

Katana stepped a few paces towards his assignment. Knelt down.

“They call me Katana. Do you have a name?” the seasoned Turk asked.

No answer.

“I imagine you do,” Katana continued. “And I like knowing who I’m talking to.”

Silence.

“You’re forcing me to make one up for you.”

“—No need.” The kid raised a solid middle finger to the Turk’s scarred face. “It’s Fuck You.”

Two Guns laughed.

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Katana said, ignoring the insult. “I’m going to tell you exactly what’s going to happen next. And you can decide if it happens or not.”

‘Fuck You’ lowered his hand.

“I’m going to ask you to tell me your part in last night’s events. I’m going to ask you to tell me who killed that young man last night. And I’m going to offer you something useful in exchange for your information.”

Leaning forward on his elbows, the redhead tilted his head to one side.

“Really, mister? Honest?” he retorted, his innocent bravado devolving into cracking wise. “You’re gonna shoot straight with me? Golly, what a guy.”

Katana smiled.

“You get three chances to answer,” he explained softly. “After that, I can’t promise we’ll remain on good terms.”

Looking pointedly around the room, taking in the insulated walls, the cement floor, and the flickering florescent lighting, the kid nodded.

“Good terms, huh,” he griped. “Hate to see your bad ones.”

“Answer my questions,” Katana said, “and you won’t have to.”

The kid let out an exaggerated _pfft_. Bloody droplets splattered across Katana’s face. The culprit’s eyes went wide. He’d clearly forgotten about the split in his lip. It now, however, played in his favor, so he casually leaned back against the wall—and owned it.

Katana stood, removed his glasses with one hand and retrieved a handkerchief from his breast pocket with the other.

“First question,” he said, wiping his glasses clean of crimson. “What was your involvement in last night’s events?”

The interrogee remained silent.

“Second question,” Katana continued. His glasses weren’t as pristinely crystal as they had been before, but he donned them, nonetheless. Blood still speckled his face. “Who killed the victim?”

No answer. The kid had circled back around to staring daggers at his captor.

“My offer: you get to go free, pockets full of gil.”

“I’m good.”

Katana returned his kerchief to his pocket. “Stand up,” he ordered.

The seated miscreant smiled.

“Pass.”

Without warning, Katana swooped forward, lifted the pint-sized criminal by the neck, and slammed him against the wall. Strangled and surprised, the kid kicked out with his good leg, to no avail. His toes were just out of reach of the ground, offering no leverage but the wall behind. Desperate, he planted his hands on the arms of his attacker, braced one foot against the wall, and writhed with all his might. This only served to tighten Katana’s grip. Moment’s later, he was slumped in Katana’s relentless grasp. The second before his lights went out, Katana released him. The kid dropped to the floor amidst a storm of coughing and gagging.

Katana took a step back, waiting for his target’s lungs to balance out.

“That was your first chance,” he declared simply. “You have two more.”

Heaving air back into his system, his counterpart didn’t argue.

Kneeling once again, Katana jump started his line of questioning.

“First question,” he repeated. “What was your involvement in last night’s events?”

This time, the Turk waited.

Pushing himself shakily into a sitting position, the kid immediately pressed his back to the wall. His eyes darted from Katana to the door. Fear laced his panting breaths.

“Hm,” Tseng mused privately behind the glass.

“What?” Two Guns asked, keeping his eye on the action.

“He’s used to talking his way out,” came the reply.

Two Guns chuckled wickedly. “Not this time, kid.”

“Second question,” Katana pressed onward. “Who killed the victim?”

Seemingly remembering himself, the suspect’s breathing evened, deepened. If looks could kill, Katana would’ve been six feet under.

“Somebody did,” came the hoarse answer. “Stands to reason.”

“Who.” Another order.

Silence.

“My offer,” Katana stood again. The kid watched his every movement, tensing like it was a threat. And in a very real way, Two Guns knew, it was. “You get to go free, pockets full of gil. You get to live far away from this place and pretend like this never happened.”

The target’s bloody lips thinned, a denial. He shook his head, wincing a little at the pain in his neck. “Uh-uh.”

Katana put his hands behind his back.

“Stand up.”

A long pause followed. The kid’s options-to-defiance ratio was being tested.

“Decisions, decisions,” Two Guns quipped. Tseng merely waited.

The reply didn’t carry the same heat as before.

“…Fuck you.”

This time, Katana didn’t act immediately. He gave the boy time to consider the error of his rationale. Shifting awkwardly, his assignment once again shot a furtive glance at the door. He remained tacit.

Katana frowned.

“Soft,” Two Guns chuckled. “He hates this.”

Katana’s finely polished, company issued loafer heel came down hard on the suspect’s crooked left foot. The bone snapped instantly. There was no restraint in the scream that followed, no tough guy routine. ‘Fuck You’ was just a kid with a broken ankle.

Katana resumed his initial position, pausing to wait out the cries.

“Last chance,” he offered. “This is your decision. You can make it stop at any time.”

“Stop giving him options,” Two Guns coached from the sidelines, knowing full well he couldn’t be heard. “Get to the point.”

The street kid lay on his side clutching his clearly snapped left ankle like it was falling off. Involuntary tears stained his cheeks and judging by the noise the punk was making, Two Guns couldn’t tell if he was crying or growling.

“He’s gonna puke if he keeps gulping in air like that,” he commented, finally taking a seat next to Tseng. “What did I tell you? He’s about to crumble. Watch.”

Tseng didn’t reply.

Katana skipped the eye-level interrogation for the final round.

“First question. What was your involvement in last night’s events?”

“I was fucking there, wasn’t I?” screamed the redhead through gritted teeth. “You got me!”

“Second question. Who killed the victim?”

A strained, graveled groan was the only reply.

“My offer: You get to go free, pockets full of gil. You get to live far away from this place and pretend like this never happened.” Katana leveled an even stare at the wretched boy. “And you don’t have to stand up in a line with your friends at the firing squad this morning.”

Alarm etched itself on the boy’s face.

“…What?” he managed, sounding for the first time like the kid he was.

“Your executions have been scheduled for an hour from now,” explained Katana. “They’ve all been given similar offers.”

“For a fight??”

“For assassinating a Turk operative.”

Two Guns watched realization dawn on the target. What color he’d had left drained from his face, making his lip stand out like a beacon.

“Kicks…he wasn’t--.”

“We called him Smoke,” said Katana evenly.

‘Fuck You’ let go of his ankle and rolled onto his back, wrapping both arms over his face in…disbelief? Two Guns guessed it was to hide.

“Fuck,” came the muffled reply.

“He wasn’t the black-market dealer you presumed him to be. He was investigating a string of lootings from Shinra storehouses, something I believe you to be familiar with.”

“… _Fuck_ ,” mumbled the redhead, remorse tinging the expletive. His face was still buried beneath his arms.

“And now someone has to take responsibility for the actions of the whole.”

Tseng leaned forward, his steady gaze studying the boy on the ground. One thing Two Guns always admired…and hated…about his fellow trainee—was that no one could ever really tell what he was thinking. The older of the two wanted in on the secret, wanted to ask him what was going on in that analytical brain of his. But experience told him there was no point. Tseng was a vault. Lots of information went in, no information came out.

The door to the interrogation room opened once more. Two Shinra infantrymen dragged a particularly whipped-looking slum rat into view. The man was just that—a grown man, clearly a fully fledged gang member, riddled with obscene tattoos and dressed to clear a path on the street. The redhead recognized the thug immediately. He propped himself up on an elbow and made a move towards the man before his foot got the better of him.

“Stitch! Hey!” he yelped, taking in the deep cuts and bruising marring the man’s face. The other man was forced onto his knees by the guns of the infantrymen, who each positioned themselves behind the captive. His hands were secured behind his back…and he said nothing.

“Stitch!” the kid barked again. “Hey! You’re okay! Ah, shit, I thought they got you!”

No spark of familiarity showed on the man’s beaten features, despite his younger compatriot’s juvenile attempts to cut through the stark reality of the scene. The growing silence tempered his youthful enthusiasm.

“Stitch?”

Silence.

“It’s him,” the thug said suddenly. Katana waited patiently. “He killed your guy.”

Two Guns shook his head. “They all break the same.”

The kid looked like he wasn’t seeing straight.

“…Huh?” he stammered.

Katana moved to the nearest infantryman and took his gun. The Shinra trooper didn’t protest, merely nodded and left the room.

“We found out Kicks was dirty and the little shit thought he’d be a smartass and make something of himself.”

“Wait, what?!” the runt squeaked.

“So, the kid pinched a knife and stabbed him during a meet up. Snuck up behind him and put a few holes in his back.”

“No, I didn’t!”

“His people…or, who we thought was his…didn’t like that, so they came after us the second the body was found.”

“You fucking liar!!”

The kid was on all fours now, clearly torn between risking an escape or tearing his former mate to shreds. Every inch of him was shaking out of…fear? Desperation? Anger? Two Guns couldn’t tell. Maybe it was the pain.

Katana moved behind the accused and lifted him sharply to his feet, gun planted in his side. The young man didn’t struggle, merely muttered a string of expletives at the sudden weight on his foot.

“That’s odd,” Katana noted.

Stitch eyed the Turk suspiciously.

“I don’t remember anyone mentioning a knife.”

Behind the safety of the two-way glass, Two Guns yawned. The thug rambled out an incoherent assortment of excuses. The infantryman moved forward and gagged him. Then, things got interesting.

Katana pulled the boy backwards, ensuring that he could use the wall to rest his weight on his good leg.

And handed him the gun.

“I have another proposition for you,” Katana said, stepping casually to the side. The lone infantryman trained his weapon on the boy. “You kill your colleague and I’ll wipe your slate clean.”

Things were clearly escalating too quickly for Mister ‘Fuck You.’ Panting, he cast wild eyes all over the room, first to the infantryman, then the Turk, then his friend, then the door. For the briefest moment, he even locked eyes on the two-way window.

“Hm.” Tseng again.

“Go on,” Katana urged. “I told you I’d give you a choice, didn’t I?”

The kid looked like he was going to be sick. Two Guns could practically smell the adrenaline coming off him.

“If I had to guess, I bet you’ve never had a choice until now. Someone like you has to claw and scratch for what trickles down from the top. You’re not the man in charge, you’re a child at the mercy of others. There isn’t any family you could go back to, no parents to set you on the straight and narrow. Just people like him,” Katana nodded in Stitch’s direction, “who make you feel like you’re a part of a collective. Who give you a cut and watch your back while you sleep.”

Stitch protested loudly into the gag.

“Stealing for yourself works but stealing for the group means you’re participating. At the end of the day, even killing to protect the group is worth something in their book. It’s taking a life, sure. But if they’re safe, you’re safe. It’s simple evolutionary theory.”

The kid’s arm was shaking.

“You have until the count of three. One.”

Every muscle in the boy’s body tensed and he quickly rescanned the room for an escape plan. There was none.

“Two.”

“Nowhere to run, son,” Two Guns quipped, clicking his tongue in disapproval.

“Three.”

The whole room went quiet.

“Fire.”

With a feral snarl, the kid turned his gun on Katana’s face and fired. Tseng and Two Guns were both out of there seats in an instant. Two Guns ran to a weapons rack on the wall and plucked a pair of pistols loose. He was nearly out the door when Tseng grabbed him.

“Stop,” he ordered. “Look.”

Before Two Guns could protest, he noticed Katana very much alive and well.

He smiled, idly tossing the gun’s clip in one hand.

“Well done,” Katana grinned. “I applaud your loyalty.” He nodded at the infantrymen, who promptly put a bullet in Stitch’s head, spraying blood and brains all over the stark room. ‘Fuck You’ doubled over to be sick, but his empty stomach betrayed him and he merely gagged instead. Katana patted his back kindly as he passed by, moving to the door. “I may have another proposition for you yet.” The infantryman dragged Stitch’s body into the hallway outside, leaving a blood trail behind him. Katana held the door for him as he passed. He shook his head at the miserable boy now slouched on the floor, head buried in his hands.

Another figure met Katana in the doorway.

“Well?”

“I think he’ll do as a replacement,” Katana replied simply.

“Good to hear.”

Two Guns squirmed from one side of the window to the other.

“Who’s Katana talking to?”

“The Director,” Tseng answered. “As I said, Katana had a mess to clean up.”

“How do you know it’s him?”

Sure enough, Director Veld stepped just inside the doorway, eying the boy at the far end of the room with almost fatherly discretion.

“How did you--?” Two Guns griped.

“Shh,” came Tseng’s terse reply. “I’m listening.”

Veld handed Katana a handkerchief from the folds of his inner jacket and motioned to his face. The Turk operative took the hint, dabbing the remainder of the blood away.

“I told him I’d have to give him a name,” he explained to Veld. “Since he refused to give me his.”

Stifled sobs caught Veld’s attention.

“He’ll have a number for now, like the rest.”

“Of course, sir. Still,” Katana raised a knowing brow at his superior. “I do enjoy being a man of my word.”

Veld took a long look at the boy.

“Reno.”

“The logo on his shirt? Hardly creative sir,” retorted Katana playfully. “What does it even mean?”

“Who knows,” shrugged Veld simply. He turned to leave. “I need your assessment by the end of the day.”

“Yes, sir,” came the prompt reply. The two senior Turks exited and locked the door behind them, leaving the kid to process the day he’d had.

Tseng eyed Two Guns knowingly.

“Well?” he said simply, amused. “Do you think he cracked?”

Two Guns frowned. He’d been outdone again.

“Depends on your definition,” Two Guns griped over his shoulder as he moved to replace the pistols he’d swiped from the wall. With the action over, there wasn’t much left to see. “I’m done with this,” he announced and headed huffily out the door, leaving Tseng alone behind the two-way glass.

“Reno,” he said aloud, cataloguing the name.

He’d learned a lot about this newcomer in the half-an-hour it had taken to run the interrogation. But where that would take him, only time would tell. Many trainees didn’t make it out of the program. They couldn’t perform, they maintained scruples, they ‘disappeared’…there were innumerable reasons why only a specialized group of Turks made it through to the other side. Tseng was one of them now. There was no room for empathy. It was a waste of valuable time.

“We’ll see.”


End file.
